Cecilia stood balanced atop a flat stone bench, attempting to tie a cluster of ivy and cream-colored roses to the trellis arch overhead. Her sleeves were rolled up, her fingers nimble but slightly smeared with green. Her skirts rustled gently as she stretched upward, biting her lip in concentration.
Abigail sat nearby on the trimmed grass, knees drawn to her chest, watching her with a narrowed gaze and arms folded. She had a pair of garden shears resting in her lap that Cecilia had refused to let her use.
Cecilia glanced down, squinting through the sunlight. “I am being careful,” she replied lightly. “I was born with excellent balance.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Abigail argued.
Her response caused Cecilia to giggle. Abigail gave a rare, pleased smile and leaned back on her palms, squinting up at the sky. They were starting to get along. It was slow and uneven, much like the child herself.
But there were moments of sudden openness, then hours of silence where Cecilia could hardly tell if she’d imagined the breakthrough. But Abigail was talking more now. Not just nods or shrugs, but full thoughts, questions, even the occasional unsolicited opinion. They took their meals together now, just the two of them, often seated at the end of the long dining table that stretched like a river through the Ashbourne breakfast room. The space still felt too vast, but the sound of Abigail’s voice made it feel less hollow.
Valentine, however, was never there.
He hadn’t joined them for a single meal since the wedding. He was always in his study. Always working, always occupied. It felt intentional. Cecilia hadn’t had a proper conversation with him in days, not since their last terse exchange about expectations and heir-producing duties. That had been awkward, to say the least.
Cecilia steadied herself atop the bench, her hand reaching toward the unruly rose vine curling around the marble balustrade. The petals were pale pink, nearly white at the edges, and wild in the way only something unbothered by human hands could be.
“These roses have a mind of their own,” Cecilia said, plucking a stray thorny stem from where it had hooked around the rail. “IfI don’t coax them into place now, they’ll strangle everything by next week.”
“They’re not very polite flowers, are they?” Abigail said after a beat, standing up to step closer.
“No,” Cecilia agreed with a faint smile. “They’re terribly ill-mannered. Beautiful, but wild and quite untrained.”
“I like the bluebells better,” Abigail murmured. “They don’t scratch.”
“Well, they are very well-behaved,” Cecilia said, eyes still focused on the vine. “Very orderly and respectful of other plants’ boundaries.”
“Do flowers really think like that?”
Cecilia laughed softly. “I rather think they do. I imagine the roses are proud and dramatic. Tulips are elegant and quiet. Bluebells are sweet and sensible. What do you think?”
Abigail considered this as Cecilia leaned slightly to one side, reaching for a high branch. “Marigolds are loud,” she said at last. “They always look like they’re screaming.”
“They do, don’t they?” Cecilia giggled. “What about violets? What do you think of them?”
“They look shy. Like they’re always hiding.”
“Just like some people,” Cecilia said gently, giving her a knowing smile.
Abigail tilted her head. “Like me?”
Cecilia gave her a warm, sideways glance. “I was thinking more of myself.”
Abigail giggled softly, too. “Then we are both violets.” She looked down at her hands and then back at Cecilia. “Will you read me the story of Goody Two-Shoes tonight? You told me last night that you liked that story and wanted me to read it with you.”
Cecilia paused mid-reach and turned, surprised by the question. “You still wish to read it?”
Abigail nodded. “I want you to read it to me.”
“Well, if you wish it. Though I shall have to find it first. Miss Flaxman mentioned it may be somewhere in the library, so I would need to look for it. I highly doubt we would find it here, but since you remembered, I will try to get it for you.”
Abigail gave the faintest of smiles. “Very well.”
As Cecilia turned back toward the marble balustrade, she felt a soft warmth spread across her chest. They had begun readingtogether scarcely a week ago. Slowly, it had become a daily routine. Each evening, Abigail now sought Cecilia out with a book in hand. That she allowed Cecilia to read to her and trusted her with the gentle ritual was a small triumph. One Cecilia cherished more than she dared say aloud.
Just as Cecilia managed to loop her fingers around the last stubborn vine, she shifted her weight slightly on the narrow stone bench she’d perched on to reach higher. Her heel slipped on the edge, and though she reached out instinctively to steady herself, her fingers met only air. Her balance tipped, her hand missed its hold, and with a startled yelp, she toppled forward over the balustrade.
She landed with a soft, wet squelch into a freshly watered flowerbed, arms splayed, skirts askew, and the delicate petals of a rose tangled in her hair like some tragic floral crown.
